The fug of old coffee,
rung around the bottom of
a disposable cup
(Actually, all cups are
like all things, disposable,
but this one was
fashioned to be trash
fast. It will last
coincidentally virtually eternally.)
The lost quantity,
the margin, the forgotten
molecules
too strung out on
surface tension
to make the pilgrimage to my
lips wished-for or not.
Freeze-dried and reconstituted
(in an instant, so they say),
now they lay,
evaporate drying into
the petroleum product
crevices,
unrinsable,
safe from scrubbing
by virtue of
futility.

The instant is gone.

Pretend, Nescafé,
to be infinite in your
rubbish exile,
but in reality only
polystyrene is forever.